Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Let Me Wash Your Blues Away

The Dead tried to exit a gig in high fashion just once. In both concept and execution, the plan was flawed.

“Has anyone seen how Led Zeppelin does it?” Bobby said to the others as they stood outside Front Street. It was Spring, so the Dead were having their charity car wash to benefit Ronnie the Sickest Boy in the World. (Ronnie’s existence was limited to a picture of child actor Ron Howard that Mickey had cut out of a magazine: the money was going towards Billy’s gambling debts.)

Garcia stopped soaping up a Camaro.

“Like, musically?” Garcia said.

Billy, who instead of helping was just hucking rocks at people and cars, which–according to Wikipedia–is the mathematical opposite of helping.

“Sexually?”

“No, guys: exitaciously.”

“That’s not a word, Bobby,” Phil said. He had just returned, having crawled into the back of a station wagon getting washed, falling asleep, waking up in San Luis Obispo, scaring the shit out of the lady owner, finding out she was a Deadhead, receiving a beej, falling asleep again, getting the shit scared out of himself by the lady, eating a roast beef sandwich she had prepared, disliking the roast beef sandwich, wondering what the proper percentage to eat as not to be rude, deciding on 60%, hitting 50%, calling it a day, asking for another beej, settling for a tugger, catching a ride back, inserting himself into a conversation as if nothing had happened, correcting Bobby’s grammar.

“I have asked you time and time again not to correct my grammar or my syntax. One more time and I’m going to HR.”

“Didn’t we make Otis the head of HR?”

“Then he’ll definitely be on my side, won’t he?” Bobby said. Proud of his latest win in a game of office politics that only he was playing, Bobby went back to the cars, bending over every so often to give the neighborhood dads a peek at the goods. Such pervs, Bobby thought. Gross.

The next car to pull in snapped Bobby out of his Lolita-inspired reverie. It was blasting Zep: the song they stole from a black guy and slapped some doofus bullshit lyrics about elves on.

“Our exit!” Bobby cried.

FADE TO BLACK

 

 

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